Harry was shivering so badly from the memory of it all that he was hardly able to stand. The waitress on duty, a middle-aged redhead named Sarah, saw him stagger out of the phone booth and stumble to the nearest counter seat. “Are you all right, Harry?” she asked. He threw her a reassuring look and asked for a cup of coffee. While he drank, he reviewed the evening’s terrible occurrences.
First he had gone to the police station. He had been so incoherent, had been stuttering so badly, that Cecilia had taken one look at him and practically ordered him home and into bed. He had tried to make her understand, but it had been a losing battle. She had told him that none of the men sent to look for Patrolmen Hanson had come back, so she’d already called the State Police again. Only they were still so busy with the Boonton explosion and its after-effects that it would be some time before anyone would be free to come to Milbourne. She’d been worried, plenty worried, but she’d not been able to make head or tail out of what he was yammering about. “Go home. Go home and wait,” she’d said. She’d asked again and again what happened to Hank and the Chief, but Harry just wasn’t able to get the words out. He ran out of there with her hollering after him, telling him to come back, to give her some news of the man she’d worked with for nearly seventeen years.
Harry had run through the empty streets, trying to calm himself down, to stop his teeth, his tongue, his lips from quivering, his arms and legs and knees from shaking. He had stood in front of Cecelia blabbering away, realizing that she hadn’t been able to understand one word—not one word—of what he was saying. God— make the shaking stop. Why can’t I stop shaking? he had thought. Did it have something to do with the puncture wound in his leg? The whole limb was throbbing from the knee to the ankle. He’d been injured and he could feel an alien substance spreading like cancer through his veins.
He ran to his store, but realized with a shock that his key ring had fallen out of his pocket sometime during the night, that there was no way he could get inside short of shattering a window. He had calls to make, important calls. He needed silence, privacy, to make them, to compose himself. Cecelia would not have let him near the phone, let alone given him the peace and quiet he needed to think straight, to put his thoughts in order. He had to get inside, get to a phone. He thought of running to his car, driving home, but even if he had been in any condition to drive—and he wasn’t—both door keys and ignition keys were now lost below the earth.
He ran around in circles on the sidewalk in front of his store. Had anyone seen him they would have thought him drunk or bereft of his senses, and they would not have been entirely wrong. He dashed around, whining like an animal, wishing he could think clearly, talk lucidly, know instinctively just what to do. God—he had a raging fever. Again he thought that the injury he’d sustained must have been responsible.
He could not wait, the town itself could not wait for the State Police to arrive. They were going to be tied up for hours, might be stuck there at the scene of the explosion all night, as Stevens had said. Even if he had successfully communicated the danger, the incredible circumstances, to Cecelia, no one would have believed him. Not Cecelia, not the Police. Who could he call? He tried as hard as possible to organize his thoughts, to shut out the horrid sounds and grisly sights he had seen beneath the ground. Dwelling on what he’d seen—even for an instant—would surely drive him into madness. Already he was on the edge, gibbering away like a gibbon, his speech a mindless babble.
Something had to be done. Something had to be done now.
Only one place in town was open at that hour. The restaurant. He ran to the diner, nearly falling to the ground in his haste, and dashed inside the comforting lighted interior. He could not stand to think of the dark, let alone be in it. Bright lights, like these—that’s what he needed. It was a slow night at the diner, and much to his dismay the few patrons inside looked too young, too tired or too drunk to be of service. He ignored the waitress and stormed into the telephones in back. Tugging out what little change had not already fallen from his pocket, he started calling people, strong, reliable people. Those who lived nearby, who could and would help him.
He had a great deal of difficulty making himself understood. But by that time he had at least calmed down enough to be able to make his words reasonably intelligible. A couple of men were very old friends, and were worried about the state he was in. They promised to come posthaste. One of these was Bill Spooner, who owned the gas station. Ignoring Bill’s protestations— Bill didn’t think Harry sounded capable of speaking, let alone walking—London insisted that he meet him at the station. He told the other men he called to meet him there, too, although most of them thought he was drunk or nuts or playing a practical joke they wanted no part of at that hour in the morning. He didn’t call the parents of the missing teenagers. He was sure the youngsters were dead, and he simply could not bring himself to tell their families. Not now, certainly. He called David Hammond as a last resort.
The sound of Sarah’s voice interrupted his ruminations. “I think you oughta get on home and sleep it off,” she smiled, giving him a wink. “I think you were out with your friends tonight, eh?”
His friends? Would they come? He didn’t even want to think about doing what needed to be done by himself. He drained his coffee cup and left a dollar bill on the counter. He pulled himself off the stool, rising to his feet with stops and starts until he stood as straight as he could manage.
“Harry,” Sarah scolded. “Are you all right? Want me to call a doctor?”
Harry ignored her and hobbled to the door, stepping out hastily into the night. The waitress saw him run down the street towards the gas station as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. “Drink sure makes some people spry,” she said, then went back to cleaning the counter.
Harry stood in the chilly air waiting for the men to gather, wondering if any of them had taken his garbled pleas seriously. He was counting on years of friendship and mutual respect to pull him through. How would he get them down there, he thought, once they got here, if they got here? How would he ever convince them to follow him back to that fetid underground, that horrible pool? What would he say to them?
He stood there by the pumps, the seeds of the plan that had grown in his mind while on the telephone sprouting out now into something that, to his fevered mind at least, made perfect sense. He tried to keep his mind off the past few hours. He tried not to think of him and young Stevens wandering for what seemed like days through tunnels and passages, in and out of rocky chambers covered with slime, breathing foul air, recoiling from the stench. And then finding that voluminous cavern, with its horrid lake and the things inside it. The bones, the horrible bones, and that one repulsive shape lying in a heap near the water, with bits of flesh still on the ribs, what was left of the ribs, and the pieces of clothing, parts of the uniform, and young Stevens had screamed, had gagged at the realization of just what that was revealed in the light from his hand. And Harry had nearly passed out then and there, as when he’d discovered Jeffrey’s body.
Then they heard the movement in the water, and only quick thinking and the blasts from Stevens’ gun had saved them. They backed away, using the flashlight only now and then, afraid to reveal their position to the creatures sliding slowly out of the lake. Just once, just once, Harry wanted to dare to turn on the light full strength, and shine it onto the water, to get one good clear look at what they were. He had seen so little before, but enough to know that nothing of their kind had swum in the seas or walked on the lands of earth before. He had seen that they had had long bodies, thick like sausages, and heads of some kind, separate from the trunk, but he had not caught a glimpse of arms or legs, if they had any. There appeared to be appendages of some kind sticking out of the back and . . . even if he’d had the time and opportunity to look, he wondered if he really would have. He knew only that he might have paid the price for his curiosity. One good look might have frozen him to the spot in horror, making him fit game for the monsters
as they advanced. He realized that at some point he had dropped and lost his rifle.
Then Hank had stumbled, and they were separated. Harry had heard an outcry, and suddenly the boy’s flashlight had come on full, and there in the glow was a terrifying sight. They were all over him, several it seemed, only the outline of their shapes visible in the light. Blood seemed to be gushing from torn limbs and neck wounds. Then the boy was covered completely and the flashlight was crunched under the weight of one of the things, and all was darkness again. But not before Harry had glimpsed the way out. The boy was beyond help; all Harry could do was run back through the tunnel to safety. Before he could get away cleanly, he felt a painful jab in his leg, and knew that one of those awful creatures had bitten or stabbed him somehow. He screamed and pulled away, afraid to suffer the same fate as Stevens.
So he had run and run and run, not ever looking back, stumbling along the corridors etched in stone, through the greasy, slimy rock, over boulders and down dark tunnels, until he’d reached the Forester Building sub-basement, and then the outside at last.
He heard a noise now. Footsteps. He turned and saw Bill Spooner—the first one to arrive. Bill was a big man, loud and malevolent to strangers, but warm and boisterous with friends. Harry London was in the latter category, and had been for nearly three decades. The big, bear-like man came over to Harry on short, rapid steps that belied his heavyset appearance.
“What is it, Harry?” he called as he approached. “What’s the matter, pal?”
Harry gesticulated wildly, trying to make himself understood. The fever had infested his entire system by now. “Gas. Get your gas cans out. We must set fire to them, to the whole cavern. The pool.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I believe the viscous liquid will prove flammable; we’ll set the very slime they’re covered in on fire.” What Bill Spooner heard roughly translated as: I beve viki kid vepor flabble.
“Harry, you’re not making any sense!”
Harry, as unsteady on his feet as he was with his tongue, told him the whole story, described what he had seen as best he could. By enunciating very carefully and speaking at a crawl, he was able to form recognizable syllables with his lips. He could tell from the look on his face that Bill Spooner didn’t quite believe him, though.
“Don’t you see?” he pleaded. “The cavern with the pool must connect somehow with the caves at the base of the Hunter’s Mountain. That explains what happened to the children and all the others.
“You must believe me!”
Only one thing made Bill decide to check out Harry’s incredible story. The mention of the missing kids. Spooner was Sam Withers’ closest friend. He had spent half the night remembering Dora Withers’ tears, wondering if he should have gone out again in the woods to look for both her husband and her boy. He was sure Sam was still out there, wandering around in the darkness, but knew that he would just have to sit tight until the sun came up and the search parties could see their way around. He wondered if he should call up the woman now, tell her Harry’s story. But no, it would be cruel to bother and frighten her at this hour with such a cockamamie tale. That was why he didn’t rouse any of his other friends. If this turned out to be something Harry’s mind had created out of the depths of his imagination, the fewer people bothered by it the better. But if there was any chance it was true, it had to be looked into, that much was certain.
Only two other men answered Harry’s desperate summons, only two out of all the people he’d called. They arrived to see Spooner and Harry carrying several cans of gasoline to the back of Bill’s battered pickup trunk.
Bill went over to the two new arrivals. “Harry thinks he’s found out what happened to those kids. And to Sam Withers.”
“What’s with the gasoline? “ one of them inquired, not unreasonably.
“If what he says is true, we’re gonna need it.”
“Shouldn’t the police take care of this?” the other asked.
Bill explained why that was impossible. Harry had told him about the Boonton explosion. “Let’s just humor him and see what the story is. Trust me, fellas,” he whispered. “If I told you what he told me, you’d think we were both nuts.”
“Well, where are we going? You can at least tell us that much.”
“The Forester Building. We’ll drive the trunk there, then each of us will carry a can of gasoline. Harry,” he called. “I think we have too much already. Only be the four of us, I guess.”
The Forester Building, Bill thought. Can’t be very dangerous if all we’re gonna do is go in there. “What are we going to do, Harry? Burn the darn thing down?”
Then he remembered why the Forester Building had been on everybody’s mind these past couple of days. Jeffrey Braddon’s corpse had been found under there.
Suddenly Bill wished that he had never answered his phone.
The things in the woods were looking for food. The soft, chewy flesh. The thick, tasty blood. The muscle. The bone. Their appetites had not yet been satisfied. They had fed on the body of the one who had come alone. As they had fed on the bodies of the young ones, and the man who had come in search, and the other men who had responded to his screams Then they had waited in the dark, some searching, moving through the underbrush, exploring this strange new world, accustoming themselves to its sights and smells. Despite the fact that the woods were pitch black at this hour, they could see everything quite clearly.
They heard the men arriving before they saw them. Hanson! Where the hell are you? they had cried, over and over again. The sounds made no sense to them. All they cared was that the creatures were approaching, the creatures who walked upright on two legs and who seemed so vulnerable, so defenseless—all that mattered was that those creatures were warm-blooded and fleshy and edible.
So the things attacked. And ate.
For hours they picked the bones clean, swallowing every piece of sweet, delicious meat, then finally set upon the bones themselves. Some limbs, and the head of one of the men, were saved to be dragged back later into the cave and then fed to the young ones in the pool. The young ones had to have their food brought back to them. At least for now But the food was so good that it was difficult for the things in the woods not to consume it all at once. They had never tasted anything quite so good before. They were bolder now, unbothered by the vibrations, the presence of the food. All that mattered was their hunger.
They could go for long periods without eating. They had been bred for that. But inside, the hunger still grew and the appetite remained, and when they finally came upon something edible—and they could eat virtually anything organic—there was nothing that could stand between them and their prey. They sucked the blood, warm, thick blood, in through their mouths; sharp mandibles gnawed on bone and muscle, tearing into tendons with violence born of weeks-old hunger.
It was still very dark in the woods. They preferred the dark and would not step out of the caves during daytime. They were nocturnal in nature. They would stay there waiting almost until the dawn, then they would make their way back to their habitat, and the young ones. Hopefully, more prey would arrive before the morning. Perhaps tomorrow they would be brave enough to move out in search of the prey, instead of waiting for it to come to them. Had that first one, that young female, not walked into the edge of their lair, one of the many tunnels they had bored into one of several openings into the outside world, they might never had tasted this delicious food again after that first time, when some of their number had come upon that man. The desire for this food was so strong that it had prompted them to leave the pool, to seek out more prey, to taste the delicious flesh and blood again, it was all they lived for now.
But they would bide their time, for safety’s sake. Tomorrow would be soon enough to leave the woods. In search of more of the food.
Then something strange happened. An unusual fragrance, an odd aroma permeated the air. Smoke. A haze developed over the woods as more of the gray fog poured out of the cave o
penings. The young ones.
The babies were on fire!
As quickly as they could they made their way back to the caves. The smoke did not bother them as much as the heat. A scorching wind blew through the tunnels. Some came close to collapsing, but finally all of them managed to make their way back to the pool. Not one was left in the woods.
They saw more of the food, three men—no, four— standing by the pool. One of them was hurling a strange liquid from a container onto the water. The other three seemed to cower in the background; they too, held containers, empty containers. It was clear that the fourth one, screaming like a madman, pouring the liquid with frenzied thrusts onto the water, had emptied all of the containers himself. One end of the lake was already on fire. He had thrown matches onto the liquid, which floated above the water level and gave off a smell almost powerful enough to overwhelm their own, natural odor. Though most of the smoke had been carried up through the caves or sucked up through sinkholes to the outside, that which remained made the men cough and cry and rub their eyes. “Harry. We’ve got to get out of here,” one of them yelled. He was ignored.
The one called Harry continued pouring the gasoline onto the surface of the water. He lit another match and threw it onto the bubbling, frothing lake alive with living creatures. The things from the woods were frightened of the fire, but could not ignore the agonized cries of their young. They dove into the fiery pool, determined to save their offspring; but it was too late. Each of them burst into flames on contact with the water, the slime covering their bodies instantly igniting. The cavern echoed with their death screams, the eerie light from the flames casting bizarre and horrible shapes and shadows over the rocky walls. The “children” squealed, and struggled, shocked senseless by the terrible heat.
Spawn of Hell Page 19
